Giordano Bruno 03 - Sacrilege

by S. J. Parris

  “I was not sent here to find reasons to shut down the foundation, Harry, whatever you may believe. I did it all for the girl. And, yes—if I save her it will have been worth it.” I hesitated again and took a deep breath. “But, actually, she is not as far away as you think.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow and I told him how Sophia had journeyed to Canterbury with me, how the Huguenots had sheltered her but were afraid to go on doing so since my arrest, how I had promised to find her this coming night in the crypt.

  “And bring her here?” He looked less outraged by the idea than I might have supposed.

  “With Samuel away she would be well hidden. It is only until the assizes. Everything will be resolved then.”

  “I admire your optimism, Bruno. But by this you would make me an accessory to murder.”

  “She is not a murderer.”

  “You are chopping logic—she is a thief and a fugitive from justice, and that is a felony.” He shifted in his chair and let out a despairing laugh. “It doesn’t seem that I have any choice in the matter. I suppose I am already harbouring one suspected murderer—the more the merrier. Well then, Bruno, you had better find this evidence, or we may all end with a rope around our necks.”

  THE BELLS JOLTED me awake in an instant, so loud they seemed to make the walls vibrate, and I came to on the narrow bed in Harry’s guest chamber, sitting up in all the disarray and confusion of interrupted sleep. I had only meant to lie down for a moment, but the bells must mean Evensong; I had no idea how long I had slept. Harry’s voice floated indistinctly up the stairs, no doubt urging me to hurry. I dressed quickly, ran a comb through my hair, and hastened to join him.

  The first fat drops of rain had begun to fall as we made our way at Harry’s halting pace along the path to the south transept entrance. Overhead the clouds were swollen and heavy and the air was taut with heat and the salt wind, as if waiting for the one great cleansing burst that would discharge all the pent energy of the sky.

  “One thing puzzles me,” Harry said, holding his free hand ineffectually over his head against the rain. “Where did they mean to get another boy when the time came to stage their great miracle? Pluck one off the streets again?”

  “Beggar children are easy enough to find in these times,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure. And how to persuade the people to take notice of this supposed death and resurrection? It pains me to say it, but the death of a street boy would hardly concern most of our good citizens. They would need someone of more significance. The boy in the legend was a noble’s son.”

  “Perhaps the beggar boy and young Denis were just to test the dosage. My friend Doctor Dee used to keep mice in his laboratory for the same purpose. It was all the same to him whether he killed them in the course of his experiments. He used to say the pursuit of science took precedence.” I felt my throat tighten at the thought of treating children in the same way.

  “And they will test on more, according to what you heard Langworth say,” Harry said, lowering his voice as we approached the door. “They will need to be certain of the mixture if they are not to ruin their public conjuring trick.”

  “All the more reason to stop them now.”

  We joined the line of townspeople entering the cathedral and I noted how they looked sidelong at me. Harry affected not to notice, though I knew he was sensitive about his reputation in the town. He led me to the right, up a wide flight of steps to the canons’ stalls, which faced one another across the tiled floor of the quire. We shuffled into place beside the other canons, many of whom also regarded me with naked curiosity before turning to whisper to their neighbours, barely bothering to conceal the direction of their stares. I leaned forward and rested my clasped hands against the smooth wood of the seat in front as if praying. Candle flames danced inside their glass lanterns at intervals along the stalls, fugitive light scattered and duplicated by the curve of the casings, reflected back in the dark wood.

  As the solemn clamour of the bells died away, a new sound echoed up to the stone vaults a hundred feet above us, a sweet and melancholy psalm sung in the fluting voices of the choirboys as they processed through the nave below us, the dean at their head carrying a silver cross on a stand. Though it was sung in English, there was such a comforting familiarity about the scene—these men in their black robes, heads bowed, the gentle light of the candles, the haunting polyphony of the boys’ song—that for a moment I imagined myself back in the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, and I was overcome by an unexpected surge of nostalgia, so that my throat constricted and I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes. Fool, I muttered to myself. I had not wanted the religious life—I had felt oppressed by it and begun to rebel against its constraints long before I was suspected of heresy—but at this moment I could not deny I missed the sense of community and of order it gave, the feeling of belonging to something greater than oneself. I pinched the bridge of my nose and blinked hard as the procession passed in front of us, reminding myself that the illusion of belonging is only ever skin-deep. This place is as riven with factions and backbiting as San Domenico and every other religious community I have known, I thought, idly watching the flushed faces of the boys as they walked solemnly onwards, lips pursed in song, obediently following the silver cross held aloft by Dean Rogers. As I watched, my eyes came to rest on a boy who seemed familiar. After a moment I realised he was the son of the Widow Gray, the boy I had seen that first day with Harry at the site of Thomas Becket’s martyrdom. He was taller than his fellows and carried himself with unusual poise, head aloft as he sang, his gaze turned somehow inward as if he dwelt in some private world of his own. I jerked upright as an idea took shape and leaned across to dig Harry in the ribs, at the exact moment he turned to me and whispered, “Where is Langworth?”

  THROUGH THE SILENCES of the service the rain could be heard gaining force against the high windows of the cathedral, lashing the panes so hard that the canons who ascended to the lectern to read aloud from the Scriptures had to raise their voices above it and the dean almost had to shout his address from the pulpit. The jewel colours of the glass flattened and dulled as the sky outside grew darker with the storm. Inside, the shadows lengthened and the candles seemed to glow brighter. Beside me, Harry curled and uncurled his fingers repeatedly over the carved top of his cane as he muttered the psalms and prayers by rote, never once taking his eyes off Langworth’s empty seat in the stalls opposite.

  I shared his foreboding about the treasurer’s absence. Langworth was like a snake: less dangerous if you could keep him in view and move accordingly. The senior canons were all expected to attend divine service and my thoughts travelled downwards to the crypt below, where the French church would be celebrating their own service in their small chapel. With gritted teeth, I offered a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that Olivier had successfully smuggled Sophia into the crypt and that she would find a safe place to hide until the night. I only hoped that Langworth was not down there as well, prowling between the tombs as he had been the day I first met him, a silent guardian angel with black wings.

  After the service was concluded, the dean hurried down the steps to the nave. Harry motioned to me to follow him and I held out my arm for him to balance as we descended towards the vast body of the cathedral, where the congregation were making their way to the west door, understandably in no great hurry to leave the shelter of the church for the sheeting rain outside.

  Harry ushered me through the crowd in the direction of the door. I glanced up and by the entrance to a small oratory I saw the Widow Gray standing alone, elegant in her customary black gown, her hair bound up and her face veiled in black lace. I supposed she was waiting for her son. It was hard to tell under the veil where her eyes were focused, but as I continued to watch her she lifted the lace for a moment and met my look with a smile. I returned it with as much detachment as I could, though the exchange of glances did not escape Harry’s sharp eyes.

  “Would that the women still smil
ed at me that way,” he murmured, with a gentle nudge to my ribs.

  “Edward Kingsley made her a settlement in his will,” I whispered. “Perhaps she received other payments from him. What if they had made some sort of bargain?”

  Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then understanding lit up his face.

  “You mean, for the boy?”

  I nodded.

  “He is of an age with those that were killed. Suppose he was intended for the miracle all along—they would have chosen boys of a similar age and build to ensure they had the dosage right. And the death of a gentlewoman’s son would attract more attention in the town than that of a beggar boy.”

  Harry rubbed a hand over his chin and moved in still closer.

  “You know some like to say the boy is Langworth’s.”

  “Is it true?”

  He shrugged.

  “Perhaps there is a resemblance, but then once the thought has been put in your head you are primed to see it, no? But to sell your own child—” He broke off and looked past me with disgust to where the Widow Gray stood, aloof and a little fragile, silhouetted against the candles.

  “Perhaps they assured her it was safe,” I said. “She may not know how many other boys have died in preparation.”

  “May still die,” Harry said ominously, a little too loudly, for we had reached the door by now and arrived within earshot of Dean Rogers, who looked up from shaking the hands of his congregation and twitched like a startled rabbit.

  “Goodness—who may still die, Harry?” he said, with a tight little laugh.

  “This wind,” Harry said, pointing outside. Through the open door rain gusted in curtains so thick you could barely see the buildings opposite. People huddled in the porch, those who wore cloaks or jerkins drawing them up over their heads in readiness for stepping out into the downpour. “I was just saying this wind may still die down in time for us to walk home.”

  “Ah.” The dean smiled, but it looked strained. “I hope you have not forgotten you are both dining with me tonight? If you want to make your way to the Archbishop’s Palace, my steward will serve you drinks. I will join you when I have bid good night to my flock and locked up the crypt. It is but a short walk and there will be fires to dry your clothes,” he added, seeing us hesitate at the prospect of a soaking.

  “No sign of the canon treasurer tonight, then?” Harry said cheerfully, almost as if it was an afterthought.

  “Alas, no. John received a rather distressed message earlier this evening from young Nicholas Kingsley. The son of our late magistrate,” he added, turning to me.

  “I have made his acquaintance,” I murmured. The dean nodded.

  “A wayward boy, I’m afraid. He is not coping at all well since his father’s death, and as John was close to Sir Edward I think he feels an obligation to look out for the lad, offer him some guidance. So John is dining there tonight and sadly won’t join us for supper. Still, I hope we will have lively company nonetheless.” He beamed and I did my best to return the smile, though my skin prickled with unease. I exchanged a look with Harry. Langworth at St. Gregory’s was bad news, but there was nothing we could do now if his purpose was to remove any evidence. I only hoped that old Meg was able to take care of herself.

  Chapter 13

  The rain continued, unabated, long after darkness had fallen, relentless in its force, as if the heavens meant to compensate for the weeks of drought by unloading all their water at once. I lay awake on the truckle bed in Harry’s spare room, listening to the torrents streaming from the eaves, pelting the roof above me like pebbles thrown in endless handfuls. Through the open casement I could smell wet earth and something metallic in the charged air. I stretched and clenched my fingers repeatedly, waiting until I could be sure all the residents of the cathedral close were sleeping; my nerves were taut, my mind as alert as if it were morning.

  Supper at the dean’s had been a tedious affair, despite the quality of the food and the undoubted beauty of the dining room in the Archbishop’s Palace. The canons talked in wearisome detail of cathedral business and regarded me—when they bothered to acknowledge me at all—with an air of suspicion that bordered on outright contempt; apart from the dean, who interrogated me about my life in London and who else I knew of any standing at court, barely bothering to disguise the fact that his whole interest in me was in seeing what influence I might be placed to exert on his behalf in London, once the awkward business of the assizes had been dealt with. The food was excellent and I gathered that the dean and his circle of friends and colleagues dined like this as a matter of course; I could see why Walsingham might resent the resources tied up in furnishing this small group of well-educated clerics with the comfortable life of gentlemen. I was conscious that the dean was giving me an opportunity to ingratiate myself with the other canons and to counter some of the gossip they may have heard about me; I appreciated the thought, but I was too preoccupied with the coming night to be good company and I was relieved when Harry, perhaps sensing my discomfort, declared himself to be too tired to stay for port and pipes and asked me if I would accompany him home through the rain.

  Now I moved to the window and looked out across the darkened close. The night was still hot, despite the storm, and the rain seemed to rise again from the ground, misting the air with moisture. The cathedral was a dense black shape solid as a fortress against the inky clouds chasing across the sky behind its towers. There was no sign of life on the ground and no light to be seen at any window. The world was silent except for the insistent drumming of the rain and the hiss of water running down stone. I doubted whether Tom Garth or the watchman would be abroad in this weather, but I would have to take my chances. Somewhere under that vast dark church, Sophia was waiting for me.

  I descended as quietly as I could manage, pausing on each creaking stair and hoping I had not woken Harry. Before he retired to bed he had left a pair of new candles and a tinderbox for me on the buffet in the front parlour, and I now tucked these inside the black doublet I wore over my shirt. With black breeches, I hoped I would not be visible as I moved around the precincts; I could keep close to the cathedral wall and hope to blend into the shadows. From the corner of my eye I half glimpsed a movement and turned to see Harry in the doorway in his nightshirt, his white hair even wilder than usual.

  “Sorry to startle you.” He held up what looked like a black cloth. “Take my cloak. It’ll keep the rain off and you’ll be less recognisable if you wear the cowl up.”

  I breathed out, aware again of how on edge I was. Even Harry’s unexpected appearance had set my pulse racing in my throat.

  “Thank you.” I pulled the cloak around my shoulders and drew the hood over my head. In the purse at my belt I carried the copies of Langworth’s keys and my bone-handled knife was tucked into my boot.

  “I don’t like this at all, Bruno, but we are in so deep now that our only hope is to turn up solid evidence against Langworth and his fellow conspirators. If there is something hidden in that crypt, you had better find it. And without getting caught. If you are found breaking into the treasury it will hardly help the case for your innocence.” He sighed, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Godspeed.”

  I thanked him and opened the door into the storm.

  IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to see more than a few feet ahead and I had to move slowly as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Rain clouds obscured the moon, though the clouds themselves seemed lit from behind by a violet storm light. Surely, I thought, if any watchman was out on a night like this he would have to carry a lantern, which would give me warning of his presence so that I could slip into the shadow of a buttress or outbuilding; without a light myself, I was unlikely to be noticed in this weather. I stumbled as far as Harry’s front gate and paused there, grateful for the hooded cloak which kept the worst of the rain out of my face. When I was sure that all was quiet, I ran as fast as I could across the open path and into the shelter of the cathedral wall. Keeping close to the wet stone, I crept forward thro
ugh the gate and past the timber yard until I rounded the corona at the eastern end. Here I felt my blood quicken again; I now had to pass the row of houses that ran parallel to the north side of the cathedral, and to reach the treasury I would have to walk right by Langworth’s front door. I had no way of knowing whether he had returned or stayed overnight with Nicholas Kingsley, but I was certain that if he was at home and heard any suspicious sound near the treasury he would not hesitate to investigate.

  I edged around the curve of the corona until I could see the outline of the row of houses opposite. All the windows were dark; the rain continued to beat down, obscuring any sound. My steps were muted by the wet earth of the path. Just as I was almost on the north side of the apse, an almighty crack exploded overhead and for the space of a heartbeat the whole sky flared into a brilliant white light, leaving me outlined against the stone wall as starkly as if it were noon. The thunder grumbled on for a few moments longer and eventually died away, as I pressed into the corner by a buttress, chest heaving, legs trembling with shock. The rain seemed to attack even more fiercely as I tried to slow my breathing and recover my composure. If the heart of the storm was now upon us, I had to move fast; every sheet of lightning would illuminate me as if I were on a stage.

  Before the next burst, I quickened my pace, trying to keep all my senses alert through the torrents of water now streaming from the cowl of Harry’s cloak. I passed Langworth’s house with a shudder, glancing up nervously at the dark windows, but I could see nothing except rain and shadows. I was relieved when I turned the corner around the chapel that jutted out and found myself on the path between the library and the cathedral and out of sight of any residential houses, with the treasury on my left.

  Here between the buildings it was pitch-black. I felt my way along the wall to the carved stone of the shallow porch. The rain was beginning to soak through Harry’s cloak and the first rivulets were trickling down my neck as I fumbled at my belt for the bunch of keys. But I could not find the latch and my fingers scrabbled frantically across the pitted wood of the door, slick with rainwater streaming down its surface, as I searched for the keyhole, cursing under my breath. It was only at the moment of another apocalyptic crack overhead, accompanied by a flash that lit the scene in its strange bluish glare, that I was able to see clearly enough to insert the first key. Prompted by some instinctive unease, I glanced quickly over my shoulder and thought for a moment I saw a figure outlined against the archway that led through to the cloister, someone dressed like me in a hooded cloak. I froze, all my senses prickling, straining for any sound over the dying rumble of thunder and the constant battering of the rain, but no movement came. The lightning had lasted only a fraction of a moment and I told myself it must have been my fevered imagination, seeing shapes in shadows. The second key I tried fitted the lock and turned smoothly, and I gave a small exclamation of triumph as the treasury door opened to me with a portentous creak.